


Touch

by winwinism



Series: Touch [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Universe, First Time, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Porn With Plot, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29106117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Kiyoomi hates alphas, but he can’t bring himself to hate Atsumu.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Touch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2171493
Comments: 25
Kudos: 685





	Touch

The problem with Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi thinks, is that he’s not the alpha pig Kiyoomi needs him to be so he can hate him with a clean conscience. He’s as meatheaded and obnoxiously chivalrous as them all, but he’s also sweet and self-deprecating and startlingly earnest, and when he learns Kiyoomi is an omega male--a rare hybrid type, viewed by broader society as either a pornographic curiosity or a pitiable evolutionary dead-end, with little in-between--his reaction isn’t to leer or condescend with his surprise, as Kiyoomi has come to expect from men like him. Instead, his face lights up with the barest of smiles. 

“Oh,” he says, eyes drifting from Kiyoomi’s, his brow smoothing out. “One of my senpais at Inarizaki was one, too. Kita-san. Y’know him?”

Kiyoomi does remember him. The quiet, ombre-haired captain who rarely came off the bench, but whose presence, when he did get out there, transformed Inarizaki’s side of the court. By Atsumu’s wistful tone and soft expression, Kiyoomi can tell he’s missed. That he’s still respected, even now, when Atsumu’s a professional in a sport stuffed to the brim with alphas. Like most sports are, naturally, except for gymnastics and figure skating and so on. Kiyoomi coughs, and Atsumu glances back at him, completely at ease. 

“You probably don’t need me to say this,” Atsumu begins, “but if anyone gives you any shit--”

“You’re right,” Kiyoomi agrees. “I don’t.” 

“Okay. Gotcha.”

Kiyoomi can handle himself. 

Kiyoomi hates alphas because they’re loud and stupid and incautious by nature, and he especially hates them because they stink. When Atsumu goes into rut, Kiyoomi can tell before even stepping into the Black Jackals’ gym by the scent left in his wake like a trail of muddy footprints. Amplified by his rut, Atsumu’s scent is thick and smoky, with the usual undertones of body odor and sex that make Kiyoomi’s nose wrinkle and his stomach turn. Taking off his mask makes it worse. Almost unbearable, even. But the thought of bringing it up--asking Atsumu to _accommodate_ him by, say, using scent blockers or taking suppressants or some such bullshit--makes Kiyoomi want to die, so he doesn’t. 

It’s entirely his own blunder that he catches a glimpse of Atsumu’s knot. Atsumu’s scent distracts him, perhaps more than that of the average alpha--Kiyoomi’s been honed in on it all day, unconsciously scenting the air for each stray, curling tendril of it like a nervous prey animal--but that doesn’t excuse carelessness. 

Atsumu’s brawny and thick all over, softer around the middle than you’d expect from someone so vain. He’s also blonde and tan like a hot summer, with a douchebag haircut that somehow suits him, and undeniably gorgeous. There’s an objective reason both of his _Volleyball Monthly_ covers sold out so fast. This is also the reason Kiyoomi steals a glance at him as they shower side-by-side; he’s only human, and beauty fascinates him, too. Yet an odd protrusion pulls his eyes downward, just for a split second--enough time for Kiyoomi’s animal instincts to register that Atsumu’s been standing there half-hard, his knot slightly inflated and flushed. These same animal instincts force Kiyoomi to fight back a gasp as a wave of shocked heat starts in his cheeks and surges through his gut, all the way down to the tips of his toes. He makes a noise anyway, and the ensuing humiliation only makes him even hotter. 

He feels Atsumu’s eyes on him, the way they curve with mild concern. “Y’alright, Omi?”

Kiyoomi huffs and turns off his own faucet, though he isn’t done and they both know it. “I’m fine, Miya-san. Don’t be condescending.” There’s a snippy comment on his tongue about whether Atsumu would be quite so concerned if Kiyoomi were an alpha, but he doesn’t say it. He’s too busy getting away. 

In the Black Jackals’ dorms, Kiyoomi shares a two-bedroom apartment with Atsumu and Koutarou. They’re both alphas, which might’ve been a less-than-ideal living arrangement for an omega like Kiyoomi if he weren’t a 192 centimeter-tall athlete with a strict weight training regimen. He also increasingly doubts Koutarou’s ability to hurt a fly. Atsumu, though, he’s not so sure. 

Neither of his roommates are home yet when Kiyoomi stumbles inside and immediately crawls into bed, but the walls are thin and Kiyoomi tends to lose himself when masturbates, so he bites the sleeve of his sweatshirt just to be sure. On his elbows and knees, ass in the air, Kiyoomi clutches at his crotch and finds himself as hard as he expected, his omega-sized cock straining at his briefs, the force of his arousal too much for the small organ to take. As he squeezes his eyes shut, the split-second image of Atsumu’s knot blooms before him in full color. Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open. He reaches behind himself, roughly shoving down his post-practice sweats and rubbing over his wet hole, gasping with satisfaction at the first taste of friction. More fragrant slick leaks out of him, wetting his fingers and crack. He massages himself for a moment, teasing as much as he can stand, then plunges two fingers in. The stretch is nothing. He feels numb to it, like his body already knows nothing will be enough until he gets a knot inside it. Atsumu’s, preferably. 

But he’s never so much as had it once. Since his first estrus at sixteen, he’s withstood his heats alone. He’d never enlist an alpha for help, and what good would a beta do? All of his omega friends tell him it isn’t the same, that it only makes the ache worse. Kiyoomi’s tough. He doesn’t need a knot--doesn’t need an alpha for anything.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wetting it with the drool that spills over his tongue. “ _Please, please, please, please, please_.” He slurs them out like they’re one long, multisyllabic word and fucks himself with three fingers, then four, curling them up into his prostate and massaging over it ruthlessly, squeezing his release out of him like he can’t get himself off fast enough, the pleasure so intense that it borders on painful. The orgasm tears through him and makes him shudder as thin, near-translucent cum spurts from his cock, and he muffles his stricken cry in the bedsheets. 

The comedown is quick and brutal, and the shame chases him soon after. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t let this momentary lapse of judgment affect his relationship with Atsumu, and he certainly doesn’t let it affect his play. His routine, like a well-worn pair of shoes, brings him comfort. If he adjusts it ever-so-slightly to decrease the amount of contact he makes with Atsumu on a daily basis, the results of his efforts are hardly worth mentioning. Just a few minutes shaved off here and there.

But alphas are proud, stupid animals with superbly sharp senses, which means they are incapable of leaving any such changes, no matter how minute, unnoticed or unremarked-upon. Kiyoomi, a private person above all else, can’t resent this impulse more.

“Hey, Omi-Omi--feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Really,” Kiyoomi says dryly, skirting past Atsumu to make a beeline for his bedroom. “Did you skip practice?”

Atsumu steps into his path. Kiyoomi flicks his eyes up so that he isn’t staring down at Atsumu’s chest--certainly not admiring the way that paper-thin muscle shirt falls over his pecs. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t. You’re imagining things.” 

“We haven’t drilled serves together,” Atsumu says seriously, “in, like, three days.”

“So?”

“So you should drill serves with me, asshole.” He cracks a half-smile as he says it, lending a sense of affection to the word that makes Kiyoomi’s stomach curl. “Kept looking for you, but I swear you were off hiding somewhere.” Atsumu lowers his voice as he adds, “You know we’re the best this team’s got.” 

Well, he isn’t wrong about that. “Okay, well. Tomorrow.” 

“Promise?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

Atsumu lets him go, sucking his teeth as Kiyoomi brushes past him. “Man, one of these days you’re gonna hurt my feelings.” 

“Good,” Kiyoomi says. Behind him, Atsumu laughs. 

Kiyoomi’s heats come about every three months, give or take a week, and he uses an app to calculate his cycle, which he then shares with the Black Jackals’ trainers and nutritionists. This way, if it ever gets bad enough, the coaches know to let him take a day off. His heats usually aren’t too bad, relatively speaking. But they vary, based on manageable factors like stress and diet, as well as unmanageable ones like, say, the presence of an alpha to whom he is particularly sensitive. He’s heard from friends and read on message boards that heats experienced in proximity to a significant other or bonded mate can be quite nasty--that is, until the mate in question is able to satisfy it. Which is kind of the entire point, isn’t it? 

When Kiyoomi starts cramping three days prior, he intuits right away that his next heat is about to knock him on his ass and wastes no time in booking a day off. The day before the scheduled start is downright painful, and he limps through practice, fire creeping up his sides despite the fistful of painkillers he allowed himself to take. His temper hangs by a thread, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from snapping at his teammates. At the very least, Atsumu has the wisdom to refrain from nagging him about serve practice, or Kiyoomi doesn’t know what he would’ve done. 

By the time he returns to the team’s dorms, his pain and frustration have built to such a point that it takes a single item of clothing--a white T-shirt, strewn lazily over the armrest of the apartment’s ratty old couch--to set him off. 

Koutarou finds him standing in the middle of the living room room, staring blankly at the shirt in his hands.

“Omi, you al--”

Kiyoomi rounds on him and throws the shirt in Koutarou’s face. “What the _fuck_ is this?” 

Koutarou plucks the shirt free and looks at it, concerned, then looks at Kiyoomi. “It’s not yours?”

“ _No_.” 

“Must be ‘Tsumu’s, then, ‘cause it’s not mine.” 

“ _Fuck_.” Kiyoomi balls up his fists. “I’m gonna _kill_ him.”

Koutarou’s look of concern immediately intensifies, and he holds up his palms, as if attempting to show a wild animal he means no harm. “Okay, please don’t do that.”

“Right.” Kiyoomi lets out a long, slow breath and loosens his shoulders, forcing the tension out with a shake. He’s still got at least one more night--a day, roughly--before his heat hits for real. But _fuck_ , his sides are killing him. He already feels scraped raw, hot all over like a preheated oven. “I won’t, sorry.” 

Atsumu chooses that moment to enter the apartment. In an instant, Kiyoomi’s efforts to calm himself evaporate in a cloud of steam, and his mouth twists as he levels an accusatory finger at Atsumu’s handsome, unsuspecting mug, stopping him short. 

“ _You!_ ”

“Me,” Atsumu says, pointing to himself in mild surprise. 

Kiyoomi turns his pointer finger on the couch. “Left your _fucking_ dirty laundry on the couch. You’re disgusting. I want to vomit.” 

“The fuck, I did not.” When Koutarou pointedly holds aloft the shirt in his hand, Atsumu swiftly corrects himself: “Okay, I did, sorry.” 

“ _How_ did that even get there?” Kiyoomi starts pacing, running his hands through his hair, then pulling at it like the sting in his scalp will dull the gnawing pain in his stomach. “You’re so fucking stupid, I don’t understand.”

“Um,” Koutarou starts, sounding supremely cowed, but he cuts himself short at the way Atsumu stalks past him and marches right up to Kiyoomi’s tense, red-faced visage. Kiyoomi stops pacing and faces Atsumu down with a glare, drawing himself up to his full height; and for a moment, it might’ve seemed to an onlooker that he had the advantage. 

Atsumu seizes his wrist, faster than Kiyoomi can snatch it away, and tugs at it sharply enough that Kiyoomi jolts forward. Then he grabs Kiyoomi by the back of his neck, clamping down on his nape with rough fingertips and forcibly bowing his head, such that Kiyoomi, too flustered and caught too off guard to resist, can no longer meet his eyes. Kiyoomi locks up as if spellbound. Unlike his own, Atsumu’s breathing comes steady, and he leans closer so that his voice drips right into Kiyoomi’s ear. 

“Don’t be fucking rude.” The words growl out of him hard as a knife, his tone the very absence of compromise.

Mute, Kiyoomi swallows. He nods. 

It’s a reasonable question, as to why Kiyoomi plays volleyball if he hates alphas so much. In truth, he didn’t always hate them. He thought they were strong and handsome and desirable before he could even name the feeling. His cousin Motoya, a beta, introduced him to volleyball at a time when the differences between betas and hybrid types were not yet so stark, and your average omega could compete with an alpha without much problem. 

After puberty, all of that changed. The alphas in his class grew sharper, meaner, more aggressive. They enjoyed growth spurts that let them tower over their beta peers, and built muscle easily. The omegas, by contrast, remained small. They became jumpy and shrill--Type A omegas, so goes the stereotype--or they took on a langorous sex appeal--Type B--that made them the center of attention wherever they went. Kiyoomi was uncategorizable, being neither small nor pretty. He’d always been tall for his age, and his growth spurt made him a top-percentile outlier. He didn’t bulk up as easily as the alphas and betas in his peer group, but his persistence won out, and he remained competitive as an athlete through his adolescence--more than competitive. He was, quite simply, better than them. 

Because Kiyoomi hadn’t ever bothered to hide his secondary gender, this did not escape the notice of his alpha peers. Of course they resented it. That’s just how alphas are. At tournaments, they’d watch him and make loud remarks that he could hear from the court, mocking the way he smelled, how un-omega-like he looked. He could tune these out with enough experience. But worst was when they touched him--grabbing him by the hand, or the shoulder, giving him orders that made his knees lock up and his throat dry. They were drunk on their newfound powers, and Kiyoomi was a nail that stuck out; it was their birthright, they believed, to hammer him down. 

Kiyoomi learned that if an alpha touched him, he could be made to submit. Paired with the sticky, gross humiliation that was his first heat, this became a resentment of his own. He wouldn’t quit volleyball, he decided--he wasn’t in the business of quitting anything once he’d put his foot into it--but he wouldn’t bow to an alpha, not ever. It was that simple. 

When Atsumu releases him, Kiyoomi realizes he’s trembling. 

“You good?” comes Atsumu’s voice, considerably softer than before. Kiyoomi blinks rapidly, eyes fixed on the floor, unable to bring himself to look up. “Hey.” 

Koutarou starts to call Atsumu’s name, something like a warning in his voice, and it’s this that frees him--the presence of another alpha, one who isn’t Atsumu. Kiyoomi’s head snaps up, the hot, embarrassed fog in his brain condensing into rage. The sight of Atsumu’s stony, nonplussed expression only heightens his fury--how dare he look so unaffected, when Kiyoomi--

A fresh tremor turns to a violent shudder, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” he chokes out, meeting golden-brown eyes through some unforseen reserve of will, “ _ever_ fucking touch me again.”

Something in Atsumu’s expression shifts. Softens. It lowers Kiyoomi’s hackles, just a little. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” 

The first day of his heat, Kiyoomi wakes to bedsheets plastered with sweat and boxers soaked through with his slick, the latter so wet that they make a gross suction-y noise as he peels them off. He’s already scheduled his day off, but he awakens before his usual alarm anyway, and lies naked atop his bed, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, as his body predictably refuses to let him fall back asleep. 

It hurts. The cramps come in waves, scraping at his gut, and in the troughs great swells of nausea claw up his throat. He can tell he’s hard, but he has no great desire to touch himself. It wouldn’t help, anyway. He lies very still, conscious of the painkillers and water bottle set out on his bedside table, but unwilling to move the meter or so necessary to fetch them. 

Finally, groaning, he thrusts one slippery limb sideways and braces himself against the sparks that flare up across his oversensitive skin to close one fist around the bottle of pills. He uncaps it with shaky hands and swallows a handful dry. The urge to vomit roils his stomach, but he keeps them down. 

As far as vestigial reproductive mechanisms go, it’s not the best. 

He smells when Atsumu and Koutarou leave by the way their scents lick under the door, Kiyoomi’s heat-enhanced senses reflexively homing in on them. Like this, alpha pheromones no longer disgust him. They smell--not good or bad, not in a way that can be quantified in human terms. They’re raw and urgent, the scent of the mating instinct itself. Kiyoomi whimpers, then bites his fist so they won’t hear. Later, the Black Jackals’ trainers will scold him for the marks. He’s already too far-gone to care.

Then they leave, and Kiyoomi finds himself alone, with the stench of his own heat for company. 

By noon, Kiyoomi’s beginning to break down. He forces down a few slices of clementine before vomiting them up into the sink, stomach recoiling at the sticky-sweet taste. He’s so nauseated by the force of his arousal he isn’t hungry. He hasn’t had a heat this bad since he was sixteen. Kiyoomi knows what triggered it.

He’ll ask for a new apartment. A new roommate. There aren’t any other omegas on the Black Jackals, but he’s sure one of the betas would be happy to swap with him. 

In the dark, sweltering lair of his bedroom, Kiyoomi opens up a secret drawer and pulls out a bright purple silicone knot. He’s used it a few times before, but at present, the artificial shade disgusts him, its lack of scent and human warmth rendering it a useless lump. He slumps belly-down on his bed and stares at it morosely until the urges start to hurt, and finally--for the first time--he allows himself to be touched. He rolls over and caresses his naked torso, playing at his own lover. Just glancing his palms over his nipples triggers a moan and another stab of arousal straight through his groin. But he’s too desperate, already too hot for a warm-up; he yanks down soaked-through briefs--the third pair of the day--and spears himself without preamble. He fucks himself furiously, gasping into the darkened room, and cums minutes, maybe seconds later around three fingers crooked into his prostate.

He’s breathing hard when it’s over--but it isn’t over, really, not by a long shot. His little cock is still ruddy and erect, and his hole gushes slick around his fingers in heavy pulses, dripping down his cleft and wetting the bed. Kiyoomi scowls as he pulls his hand out, and the little light that filters through the curtains glints off the sticky sheen to his fingers. He doesn’t want to know what he’d look like in broad daylight. 

Kiyoomi rolls over onto his tummy again, reaching for the water bottle with electrolyte tablets stirred into it--but he falls short, shuddering, as his oversensitive cock rubs deliciously into the sheets. His hips chase it before he can even make a decision, and inertia keeps him going. He thrusts into the mattress, forearms folded under him, and imagines a big, powerful alpha mounting him from behind just like this. Something within him twitches, coils like a tightly-wound spring. His hole aches to be filled. He glances at the toy knot again and feels a powerful need to rip it apart, or throw it as far from his sight as he can. 

After cumming a second time, Kiyoomi returns it to the drawer. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t take heat suppressants. The long-term side effects of blocking or suppressing one’s cycle are too great a risk for a professional athlete, and he’s never been terribly fond of what he sees as the artificial and synthetic. Instead, he wears all-natural deodorant and takes organic pheromone-reducing supplements that mask his omega nature. It helps that his scent isn’t as potent as most omegas’, and his heats are usually mild. Meditation, yoga, self-awareness, regular exercise (a given). These also help. 

As Kiyoomi’s hormone levels spiral out of control, he starts to wonder, in the rapidly shrinking, rational part of his brain not yet consumed by heat, whether he’d been a fool. There _are_ some good suppressants on the market these days. It’s not the 1950’s anymore. 

Kiyoomi starts crying on the kitchen floor, slumped against the fridge in an old pair of sweatpants and nothing else. Why? Because he’d noticed the part of the couch where Atsumu had left his shirt--yesterday, or three years ago, for all Kiyoomi could tell--and when he pressed his nose into it, huffing like an addict, he couldn’t detect so much as a single whiff of pheromones. The familiar, unsatisfyingly stale scent of an alpha’s living space grew stronger as he stalked over to Atsumu and Koutarou’s bedroom; but trying the door, he found it locked. The crushing disappointment and shame nearly made him collapse.

He’s leaking onto the linoleum. He’s filthy, helpless, weak, and as he stares at the offending spot on the couch, a wet sob wracks his chest. He wipes his nose, knuckles coming away smeared with it. The whole thing is revolting. Though he knows the mating instinct isn’t anything that turns on aesthetics, he can’t imagine being desired like this, being seen as anything other than a repulsive, sympathetic mess. 

At university, Kiyoomi had a beta boyfriend for a few weeks before they called things off. He was insecure about dating a hybrid in the first place, and when Kiyoomi’s first heat came and went without him being enlisted to help--despite Kiyoomi telling him that would be the case--he got cold feet. He felt like Kiyoomi was settling deliberately, dating him like he’d eat steamed vegetables--reluctantly, out of concern for his health, not out of desire. He didn’t have a hybrid’s instinctive, borderline telepathic sense for emotion, but he was dead-on about this. 

Kiyoomi’s crawling into bed on his hands and knees before he’s aware he’s doing it. He doesn’t do much as a result of conscious thought, like this. His phone, when he reaches for it out of some numb, wordless desire, slips between his slick fingers. Leaving it on the mattress, he hunches over it and jabs at the screen until he’s swiping through his contacts, nearly selecting his _mom_ before he gets to the name burning in his mind. 

In the darkness of his bedroom, it rings, and Kiyoomi whimpers, knees clutching together. He reaches behind himself, slick running down his thighs as he stares into the too-bright screen, driven mad with excitement just reading the contact’s name, pulling down his sweaty, filthy pants and fingering himself as he waits. It goes to voicemail. Kiyoomi has the presence of mind to cut the call, and dials again. 

_What am I doing?_ The question flits through his mind as if asked by someone else. His free hand curls into a fist. He dials a third time, then a fourth. _Duh_. He’s busy. He bites his lower lip, physically frustrated--he can’t seem to make himself cum, the nub of nerves inside him swollen but resisting his touch, his orgasm sealed off to him by an invisible wall. He needs something--something bigger. He needs warmth, someone else’s touch, a whispered order. _Cum for me_. Kiyoomi imagines the words in Atsumu’s voice, and it’s just what he needed--the dam bursts, and he sobs as his cock spurts over the filthy sheets, catching the corner of his phone. 

He’s shaking. He doesn’t pull out; there’s an itch left unscratched, and in the wake of his orgasm, it only pulses hotter. There are tears running down his cheeks. He dials again. This time, Atsumu picks up.

“Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi thinks he makes a noise at the sound of Atsumu’s voice, but he’s no longer self-aware enough to know for sure. It’s him, it’s really him; Kiyoomi’s heart skips and beats like it might burst, undiluted need coursing through him. He opens his mouth, poised over the phone, but for the moment, speaking is beyond him. 

“You alright over there? I’m told my phone’s been ringing off the hook.” Atsumu laughs, a little nervously, but to Kiyoomi it sounds like pure sex. He whines. “Uh--”

The words roll out of him unbidden. “This is y-your fault.” His eyelids flutter as he fucks into himself just right, Atsumu’s presence--even if only over the phone--ratcheting up his sensitivity to unbearable, impossible heights. 

“My what?”

“ _Fault_. Your _fucking_ fault. _You_ did this.” 

Atsumu doesn’t respond, not right away. Kiyoomi thinks he moans; he wonders how much Atsumu can hear, hopes he can hear all of it. 

Then, slowly, each word articulated with low-voiced hesitation, Atsumu speaks.

“I’m a little busy right now, but. Is there...something you need?”

By the way he says it, Kiyoomi knows he doesn’t mean painkillers or snacks. It punches the air out of him, winds his resistance. After the cramps and crying and hours of painful arousal, Kiyoomi doesn’t have any left. “ _Yes_.” 

Atsumu hums. “Okay.”

Kiyoomi revives, his eyes widening, heart thumping with hope. “You’ll come?”

“No. I shouldn’t.” His mouth pops open in horror.

“ _Huh?_ ”

“God, I hate to…” Atsumu chuckles, and Kiyoomi can almost see the way he might be running his hands through his hair, rolling his eyes up in exasperation. Is he turned on? Even a little bit? “You kinda told me not to touch you.” 

At university, Kiyoomi read a pamphlet, which was distributed to all students--betas included--called _Consent and Heat and You_. In the driest possible language, it briefly outlined the various ethical concerns related to the estrus periods experienced by that 7.6% of the population lucky enough to call themselves omegas. While they differed on prescription, both traditional views and those expressed in the pamphlet held that omegas could not truly consent during heat; they were out of their minds with hormones and would fuck anyone with an available knot, and as such, could not be trusted to manage their own sexual affairs. 

Kiyoomi wasn’t sure how he felt about that. A strict no-consent-during-heat guideline struck him as somewhat harsh, since many omegas--especially younger ones--have irregular cycles, and don’t always have a comfortable 24-hour buffer (as recommended by the pamphlet) to decide who they might spend it with. But as Kiyoomi believed this would never concern him, he dismissed the matter--despite being a thorough, intellectually curious person by nature, this was too unpleasant to think through enough to reach a conclusion--and recycled the pamphlet as soon as he’d finished reading. 

“ _No_ ,” Kiyoomi whimpers. “No, no, no, no, no, I was--”

“I know,” Atsumu says, soothing. “I’m sorry. I could smell how frustrated you were yesterday, I shouldn’t have been so harsh--”

The apologies, simpering and sweet, go down like bile. “Sh-shut up,” he bites out. “Forget it.” 

“You’ll be okay, right? You’re tough, you got this.”

“ _No_.” Kiyoomi’s mind races. The longer this goes on, the more ashamed he feels, the more regret starts to well up in his throat. Atsumu’s right, he doesn’t want to be touched. He’d rather die than submit. He just needs it. And now Atsumu _knows_ , like he didn’t already, like he couldn’t smell it on him--

Atsumu huffs, like he’s _laughing_ at him, the fucking bastard. “You won’t die.”

“I’ll die.” If he doesn’t get a knot in him right now--if he isn’t getting his brains fucked out _yesterday_. 

“You won’t. Promise.” 

Atsumu’s tone is easy, on the brink of distraction. He might hang up any second. Kiyoomi pulls his fingers out of his ass--he’d almost forgotten they were there--and gasps pathetically at the empty feeling that follows. “ _Please_.”

He searches frantically for something, _anything_ he might use to entice Atsumu. It’s not like Atsumu can’t do it; alphas are biochemically predisposed to breed omegas in heat, so it’s not a question of whether Atsumu is attracted to him, or even if he goes for men outside his rut period. But Kiyoomi knows he’s not a normal omega, that he’s big and muscular and has a gloomy resting face that, he’s sometimes told, can be intimidating. More importantly, omegas are supposed to like alphas. To like submitting. It’s their nature. 

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers again, broken. 

For a terrifying moment, Atsumu doesn’t respond. He sighs, and Kiyoomi thinks that he’s done it this time, that Atsumu’s finally gotten tired of the bitchy omega at home and will report him, somehow, maybe get him kicked off the team--which would be fine: after this, Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’ll be able to look Atsumu in the eye again, which won’t work well if they have to play volleyball together--until his voice comes through the phone, low and reassuring, shattering Kiyoomi’s world with each word: “Alright. Okay. Stay where you are, okay, Omi? I’ll go talk to coach.” 

It’s not an order, so Kiyoomi doesn’t. After ten minutes of paralysis, Kiyoomi stands on wobbly legs, finds a new pair of sweatpants, and starts to pace the apartment, sweating numbly and pulling his hands through his hair. He starts muttering under his breath, scanning his surroundings with heat-sharp eyes. The apartment, he realizes with a jolt of horror, is dirty, squalid, every square centimeter of it an obscenity. The kitchen floor, especially, is wet where Kiyoomi had been sitting on it. He should clean. Has to. 

He’s getting the vacuum out when he catches the first tendrils of Atsumu’s pheromones, reaching under the door from god knows how far; maybe he’s just entered the building. Kiyoomi freezes, dropping the handle and letting it clatter to the floor. His eyes close, and he inhales, letting the proximity of his alpha roll through him.

The door clicks and pushes open. The full weight of Atsumu’s scent hits him like a freight train. 

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi has to bite his lip bloody to keep from making a sound. 

It’s only his supreme willpower that keeps him still; Kiyoomi doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle as Atsumu crosses the room, slowly, as if approaching a nervous animal. 

The space between them shrinks to less than a meter, and Atsumu pauses, his scent so thick in the air Kiyoomi can taste it. It’s as if he’s letting Kiyoomi take his time, letting him adjust before he turns around and has a businesslike discussion about what he needs, but Kiyoomi has no more strength left to gather. It’s all he can do not to fall to his knees. 

“You feeling any better?”

“No,” Kiyoomi croaks.

“No. I can tell.” His voice is soothing, condescending in the way Kiyoomi hates; and it doesn’t work, doesn’t soothe him at all. But Atsumu seems pleased with his own performance, and says, “I have to hear from you want you need. In words.”

_Need_ , he says, not want. This justifies things. If Kiyoomi didn’t need it, only wanted it selfishly, because he’s attracted to Atsumu--for being handsome, for having a gorgeous scent, for being kind and powerful and alpha-like in everything he does--it would be unacceptable. Atsumu wouldn’t have come. It feels like a lie. Kiyoomi wants to roll over and beg forgiveness, offer himself up as recompense. 

“I know it must be hard living with two alphas,” Atsumu goes on, when Kiyoomi doesn’t speak. “I’m sorry.”

Gritting his teeth, Kiyoomi shakes his head. 

“No what? Talk to me.” Atsumu starts to step around Kiyoomi, to face him, and Kiyoomi all but shouts to keep him at bay. 

“ _I need you_.” 

“To?”

“Help me,” Kiyoomi shakes out, burning at every syllable, “through my heat.” 

“Okay.” His senses sharpened to daggers, Kiyoomi can hear Atsumu’s swallow. “I can do that.”

Relief rushes through him, but it’s only temporary. Atsumu still hasn’t moved. _Why isn’t his knot already in my_ \--

“You won’t regret this, will you?” he asks softly. 

Kiyoomi shakes his head, but it’s belied by his whisper: “I don’t know.” He can smell the note of hesitation that flits through Atsumu’s scent, and it propels him forward: “But I’ve made my decision, so.”

The silence sinks into his bones and threads a knot of uncertainty in his stomach. “Good,” Atsumu says, at last. “You have.” 

At once, Atsumu closes the distance between them until only centimeters remain. Kiyoomi stands, paralyzed, as he feels the burning outline of Atsumu’s form; if he moved back, just a little, they’d line up belly to bare back, limb to limb. 

“You need me to touch you, right?” 

Kiyoomi nods, frantic. “Yes.” 

“What else?”

“Your knot.” The word makes him go furious with shame, and he presses his palms into his eyes, groaning; and for the first time, Atsumu reaches around to touch him, just lightly grasping his elbows to pry his hands from his face. Kiyoomi shivers, the feeling of Atsumu’s thumbs on the inside of his forearms making his throat curl up with a sob. “ _Miya_ \--”

“Call me Atsumu if we’re gonna do this.” There’s a smile in his voice. Releasing Kiyoomi’s arms, he draws still-closer and molds himself perfectly along the line of Kiyoomi’s body, letting Kiyoomi’s ass press into his crotch and burying his nose into the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, arms sweeping around to hug his naked waist. Atsumu breathes in and groans, rubbing his nose into the sweat-damp skin there as his arms squeeze tighter, tighter, pulling Kiyoomi against him. “ _Fuck_ , you smell so damn good. Making me crazy.”

Kiyoomi’s done for. His jaw drops on a silent gasp, and he stares up at the ceiling. Through the wet fabric of his sweatpants, he can feel the outline of Atsumu’s dick, big and already slightly stiff. “You--you--”

“What?” Atsumu murmurs into his neck. He’s drawing in long, slow gulps of Kiyoomi’s pheromones, humming like he’s enjoying it. But--Kiyoomi reminds himself--that’s only natural, that’s just. He’s in estrus, that’s all. Alphas can’t _not_ like the scent of a willing bitch in heat. “You’re dripping, oh my god. I haven’t had heat sex in so long, I’m gonna last about five seconds--that alright with you?”

“ _Yes_.” Kiyoomi doesn’t have five seconds. He’s going to die. 

“Poor baby. Lemme take the edge off a little bit.” One of Atsumu’s hand dips, clasping over Kiyoomi’s straining cock. 

Kiyoomi’s surprised yelp rings out in the quiet apartment; even with a layer of fabric between them, Atsumu’s hand burns Kiyoomi’s oversensitive cock. Atsumu cups his member, swallowing the length with his thick fingers and jerking him lightly, just enough to squeeze a fresh wave of pleasure out of him. How he still has liquid left in him, Kiyoomi doesn’t know--some miracle of hybrid nature--but thin cum wets the fabric and slick leaks down his thighs, probably getting Atsumu’s pants damp, too. 

Atsumu pats him and lets him go. “You smell even better. Let’s get you in bed before I have to carry you--don’t think coach would be happy if I pulled a muscle trying to fuck our best spiker.”

_Our best_. Kiyoomi feels lightheaded. He might swoon anyway. 

Kiyoomi bounces back against the mattress, realizing only belatedly that he should’ve changed the sheets--or stripped the bed, at least--but then Atsumu’s climbing over him with something like a growl, his eyes golden and hot as they rake up his body, and the thought disappears from his mind. Leaving the door open lets light spill from the living room into the bedroom, shadowing Atsumu’s features but allowing Kiyoomi to make out the hard outline of them: the fine structure of his cheekbones, the slice of his jaw as it works over his next words. “What do you like? You like kissing?”

Kiyoomi bites his lip. His eyes flick to Atsumu’s full, picture-perfect lips, and there’s no way Atsumu doesn’t scent the way his pheromones spike with want. But he waits, not taking Kiyoomi’s reaction as an answer. It frustrates and delights him equal measure; asking, _verbalizing_ what he wants is a humiliation of its own. “Yeah,” he admits, flicking his eyes back up to Atsumu’s; and adds, reluctant, “But I--I don’t _need_ it.”

Atsumu huffs. “I mean, if we’re gonna do this, might as well enjoy it, right?” He dips and kisses him on the mouth before he can stall further. Kiyoomi thrills and kisses back, the nerves on his lips buzzing. When Atsumu licks into him, he moans, looping his arms around Atsumu’s neck and pulling him in, aligning their bodies. He’s already hard again, and Atsumu--

Kiyoomi wriggles his hips, urging his alpha on, and Atsumu grinds his own hips down with a delicious rumble from deep in his chest, embedding the thick outline of his cock, the suggestion of his knot, into Kiyoomi’s belly. Atsumu bites off another kiss, teeth coming out. Kiyoomi whimpers. 

“Like this,” he breathes against Atsumu’s lips, feeling like he’s in a dream. “Right now. Please, please, just like this, please--”

Atsumu kisses him before Kiyoomi can humiliate himself with further begging, and arches up to pull down his own pants in one hand, the other fisted next to Kiyoomi’s head. “Want a condom?”

“Don’t have any.” 

“Got some in the other room.” 

“Then no,” Kiyoomi says, eyes shooting southward as Atsumu sits up to pull his pants below his knees. Atsumu’s cock bobs free, thickly veined and ruddy, already smeared with his own arousal, the knot at its base beginning to swell. Kiyoomi’s hands fly to his mouth. His eyes go so wide they water; he’s never seen an alpha’s cock before, not outside of educational presentations and porn, and Atsumu’s is--holy fuck, he _is_ going to die. He’s sure they were never that big. He’s taken several good looks Atsumu’s bulge, saw him once in the locker rooms; but maybe’s a grower, or--Kiyoomi doesn’t know. He’s not thinking straight. The unmasked scent of it pours into the room, vulgar like the dirtiest perfume, and drives Kiyoomi’s omega to desperation: he needs it in him. Now. Yesterday. Since forever. 

Then Atsumu’s all but ripping Kiyoomi’s pants off of him, and he’s left naked, knees in the air with an alpha’s cock bobbing between his thighs. A day’s worth of raw, heat-soaked desire courses through his groin, up his spine, muddling his brain. He lets his head slump back against the pillows and throws a hand over his mouth. 

“ _Please_.”

“Sure, Omi.” Atsumu grips himself, right over his knot, and palms one of Kiyoomi’s knees as he arches over him again. Kiyoomi silently preens at the intimate touch and wraps his legs around him, digging his heels into Atsumu’s back and lifting his ass up, arms looping around Atsumu’s neck once more. The tips of Atsumu’s cock finds his entrance, still soaked and open from relentless fingering--just a glancing touch, but even that tells Kiyoomi his fingers were nothing. As useless to prepare him as a plastic knot. Atsumu kisses his chest, just below the collarbone, then looks up at him, golden eyes lidded. “You ready for me?”

Kiyoomi can’t look away. “Yeah.”

“You wanna be knotted? Shit, I should’ve asked you--”

The thought chokes him. “Yeah, I need it. Please.”

“Okay.” Then he _smirks_ \--and that isn’t just his heat, what flares at the base of Kiyoomi’s spine and curls his gut. He doesn’t just need a knot--what a stupid thought--he needs Atsumu, _Atsumu_ \--and Atsumu’s pressing into him, the smirk on his lips draining away as his teeth grit around a moan, his eyes going hard. Kiyoomi barely notices. 

His world splinters. Atsumu cleaves into him, and Kiyoomi’s body accepts it with open arms, but it _hurts_ , because he’s never taken anything this big before, toys included--and Atsumu hasn’t even given him his _knot_. The fat head presses past Kiyoomi’s swollen, much-abused prostate, and Kiyoomi cums instantly with a hand clamped over his mouth--not a lot, fluid-wise, but the pleasure rolls through him and makes his back arch, makes him _ache_. He can’t speak. Atsumu’s no longer moving. He smooths his palms up Kiyoomi’s sensitive abdominals, making him moan and clench, hapless beneath a thick fog of pleasure-pain. 

“Are you hurting?” Atsumu’s voice is calm but wound tight. Holding back turns his every muscle rigid; his scent is heavy and urgent, dizzyingly hot. Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Don’t lie.” 

It’s an order. Kiyoomi nods, frantic to obey. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. Thank you for telling me.” Satisfaction curls up his spine; if he had a tail, which he might’ve at some point in the evolutionary chain, he’d wag it. No one’s ever thanked Kiyoomi for following an order. Maybe Atsumu doesn’t know he’d given one, that the tone of his voice, combined with the present stimulation, triggered in Kiyoomi a biochemical reaction that was near-impossible to resist. Giving in feels like sinking into syrup, hot and thick and sweet. Fighting back felt like biting his tongue bloody, or a panic attack.

He can give into Atsumu, he thinks. For now. His pride can take that. 

In minutes, Kiyoomi is hard again, or close to it. His slick leak out around Atsumu’s cock, still only half-inside him. Only _half_ \--he whimpers again at the thought, terrified and elated in equal measure. He has half a mind to tell Atsumu that his dick is enough, he doesn’t need a _knot_ on top of everything; but the mating instinct still pulses uselessly within him, restless and insatiable by anything but that. 

Atsumu’s breathing hard. He, too, suffers. 

“Ready?” he huffs out, as if reading Kiyoomi’s thoughts. 

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathes. He stares into the ceiling. Atsumu flattens their bodies together, pulling Kiyoomi’s hips up with him; like this, he can almost reach Kiyoomi’s lips. Instead of going for it, Atsumu stares down at him, an unreadable something glinting in his eyes. 

Then his mouth flattens into a thin line, brow crinkling, and he pushes in. His eyes are rapt on Kiyoomi’s face, drinking in every pathetic noise and twitch and shudder as if reading a map. Atsumu’s scent flexes as he enters him, grows darker, ever more potent. Kiyoomi’s drunk on it, gulping it down and yet finding no satisfaction, like he’s underwater and can’t find his way up, as Atsumu presses into him centimeter by centimeter, swallowing up the breath in his lungs and carving space into him he didn’t know he had. It’s getting fucking ridiculous, or maybe Kiyoomi’s just out of his mind--probably both. Everything seems larger-than-life, more dramatic, when Kiyoomi’s in his heat. 

There’s sweat beading Atsumu’s brow as he pauses to ask: “Still with me?” Kiyoomi shakes his head. Atsumu laughs, dark and rough. “Yeah, no way. Just breathe with me, babe. You’re almost there.” 

When Atsumu’s knot pulls flush against his ass, he pauses, breath coming heavy and breezing across Kiyoomi’s face. Kiyoomi must look fucking debauched, but Atsumu’s stare betrays nothing except sweat and hard self-control. There’s something perilously attractive about how he holds himself back, treating Kiyoomi delicately even when he’s prone and begging for his knot. There can’t be any doubt about whether Atsumu’s willing on an animal level, not with his cock hard and dripping halfway to Kiyoomi’s stomach; but whether he is as a man, Kiyoomi wonders. 

He doesn’t want to know. 

“Good?” Kiyoomi closes his eyes and nods. “Breathe for me.” Under the weight of a command, a few slow, calm inhales and exhales come easy. “Yeah, just like that. Smell better already.” He starts to pull out, and Kiyoomi crinkles his nose and digs his heels into Atsumu’s back, _hard_ , hoping it hurts. “Be patient. We’re gonna fuck this thing outta you in one go, okay?”

Mute, Kiyoomi shakes as head as vigorously as he can manage. There’s no way. He can’t imagine not needing this, now that he’s tasted it once. Atsumu chuckles, though it sounds forced. 

“You’ll be alright,” he says, unconvincing. Atsumu snaps his hips, plunging back inside with one powerful, controlled thrust. Kiyoomi’s entire body jolts and shudders at the impact, sparks cascading up his spine. Atsumu’s wrong. He won’t be alright. 

Atsumu fucks him like this for aching minutes that stretch into hours, or what feel like hours: slow and deep, not giving him the whole length of his cock in one go, but teasing him with it, playing at the edge of satisfaction. He grunts, deep and animalistic, hotter than the way he does in the gym--which, admittedly, Kiyoomi has been known to appreciate--and Kiyoomi quivers until his entire body feels like jelly. His arms slide free of Atsumu’s shoulders as both of them begin to sweat in earnest, folding beneath his head like he’s about to hammer out some crunches. He’s not sure he’d be able to manage one.

Kiyoomi’s past shame, moaning and crying for it, borderline sobbing. When a tear leaks out of one eye, Atsumu pauses to thumb at it, swiping the droplet free and sucking the pad of his thumb into his mouth. Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s scent spike, feels the growl as Atsumu tears his hand from his lips before he hears it. 

“You want my knot?” 

“ _Yeah_.” Kiyoomi’s throat is dry, and his voice cracks on the syllable. 

“Yeah, I know, you’re ready.” Atsumu thrusts until the swollen flesh presses against Kiyoomi’s slick, still-sensitive rim. 

Kiyoomi feels weak; he’s only holding himself in this position by a thread. Next time, he’ll have Atsumu do him from behind. But there won’t be a next time--Kiyoomi remembers it with a shock, and instantly feels like crying. 

Atsumu must scent the shift in Kiyoomi’s emotions, because his expression ices over. “Omi?”

“ _Please_ , just--” A sob tears out of him. He drags his hands down his face, finding his skin disgustingly wet with sweat and tears and god knows how much he’s drooled. The whole room’s turned into a hormonal sauna, a den of erotic nightmares. When he’s heat-sober, it’ll horrify him. “I need it, I need it, please--”

“Okay, Omi, shhh.” Atsumu pries one of Kiyoomi’s hands from his cheeks and kisses his palm, a startlingly tender gesture when laid against brute force of his cock in him, the way he presses Kiyoomi’s body into the mattress. The kiss is safety, reassurance. Kiyoomi loves it, he hates it. He shakes his head, petulant, and snatches his hand away. “Okay.”

Atsumu’s knot pushes into him. The stretch burns, and Kiyoomi knows even know, heat-drunk as he is, that he’ll ache all week. He can’t do it, it’s impossible, and then, just like that, it pops inside. Atsumu’s cock pulses against his insides as he thrusts even deeper, fitting the knot in; Kiyoomi’s overstuffed, pushed to his limits and past them, but he wouldn’t be a professional athlete if he couldn’t do that. Really, it’s just another Tuesday. His mouth’s fallen open, his spine pulled in an arch as if suspended from a string, Atsumu his grinning puppeteer. 

Kiyoomi throbs as he feels Atsumu’s knot swell past his rim, blood beating into it with the steady thrum of Atsumu’s heart. Atsumu touches a hand to his cock, and Kiyoomi cums softly, dryly, barely anything left in him. Atsumu rocks his body gently, fucking into him without fucking him, keeping his knot nestled where it is. 

“Okay?” Atsumu asks as he scents the end of Kiyoomi’s orgasm. Kiyoomi makes a weak sound. His vision swims and, after seconds past, coalesces into a picture of Atsumu’s face, still composed and pretty even like this. _How?_ Kiyoomi wonders. He decides to voice the thought. “How what?”

“Is it good for you?” he mumbles through numb lips. Atsumu’s own lips part, surprised, but he nods.“Do you like the way I smell?”

“Yes, Omi,” he says patiently, though he’s balls-deep in an omega, and Kiyoomi realizes he’s taking Atsumu’s refusal to lose control as an insult the moment before he adds: “I love it.” 

Kiyoomi swallows. A sigh flutters out of him. He relaxes into Atsumu’s confession, wrapping it around him, and tugs Atsumu by the ear into a kiss. He grabs for Atsumu’s shoulders, hands slipping down his collarbones and chest; he thumbs over Atsumu’s nipples, and Atsumu keens into Kiyoomi’s mouth, cock beating inside him, once, twice, and again. Kiyoomi’s breath catches. Atsumu’s scent rears and breaks open with his orgasm, sinking alpha pheromones into Kiyoomi’s skin as he cums, flooding Kiyoomi’s insides with his thick, alpha release. Kiyoomi’s omega thrills, delirious with happiness. The creeping, aching need brought on by his heat falls back, if only a little. 

Panting, Atsumu rolls them over, cum and slick leaking out of Kiyoomi’s hole as they rearrange their limbs, whilst keeping Atsumu’s knot snug inside him. Kiyoomi’s muscles sigh with relief at the new position. 

Atsumu kisses the tip of his nose. “You did well. Relax.” 

And because it was an order, Kiyoomi does. 

“How long before it goes down?” 

Atsumu’s cum twice, and he’s still pulsing thick and hard within him, his knot showing no signs of subsiding. Atsumu hums. “Depends,” he murmurs lazily, barely moving his lips, his cheek smooshed into the pillow. “Like an hour.”

“O-oh.” That’s on the longer end of the spectrum. Maybe Atsumu _is_ extraordinary, ah. Down there. “Will Bokuto-san…”

“Don’t worry about it.” He sounds as exhausted as Kiyoomi feels. Kiyoomi considers that he’d spend the day at practice before coming over, and that he’s maintained perfect composure the entire time they’ve been together. 

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.” Atsumu blinks at him sleepily, his scent curling with affection. Kiyoomi’s starting to feel the first stirrings of arousal; while his heat’s gone down quite a bit, he knows it isn’t over. “Still think you’ll regret it?”

“No…” Kiyoomi worries his lip, and decides he owes Atsumu this much: “I didn’t think it’d be like this.”

“What would be like what?” Atsumu starts to yawn.

“Sleeping with an alpha? That it’d be, um…” He searches for the word, his mind slow and stupid with a knot still in him. “Fine?”

Atsumu’s yawn cuts short. He stares at him, eyes wide, mouth parted around words that don’t come. Finally, they do: “You what?”

Kiyoomi flinches, suddenly aware of what he’s just confessed. “Nothing.”

“Y-you’ve never slept with an alpha? Seriously? That was your first time--this? Tell me--what the fuck, Omi?” Kiyoomi nods on command. “Oh my god.”

Kiyoomi can’t read Atsumu’s scent. He almost asks if he’s angry, by the strange, shocked expression on his face, but it hits him a second later as he catches a familiar whiff of joy--the kind he gives off after serving a perfect, no-touch ace, or nailing one of those devilish freak quicks he and Shouyou have been working on--mixed with a potent hit of arousal and something dark, something that makes Kiyoomi’s nostrils flare. He’s happy, Kiyoomi realizes. Naked, knotted, their bodies intertwined, their scents bare all. They can read each others’ damn minds. 

Some distant part of Kiyoomi reminds him: _that’s what they say about mates_. Another whispers: _ask him._ Is that normal? Do alphas like that sort of thing, being an omega’s first? Kiyoomi’s never spent enough time with alphas--outside of volleyball, that is--to know. 

Before he can, Atsumu’s eyes are closing, brow creasing as his hips stutter, knocking into Kiyoomi’s; and he cums a third time, moaning weakly through it. He breathes deeply, chest heaving, until it turns into a chuckle, and he kisses Kiyoomi once before he remarks, “You’re really squeezing me dry, Omi-kun.” 

Kiyoomi’s neck goes hot. He knows he can’t be bred, and that it’s disgusting, but some animal part of him likes the warm, heavy feeling in his gut. And if he could’ve been bred, he thinks--shyly, as he meets Atsumu’s eyes, growing warmer still at the way they curve as he smiles--it might not’ve been the worst thing in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/winwinism). Please don't comment just to ask me for a sequel, I will cry.


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